Son of Stars
by Posher10
Summary: Aragorn, Son of Arathron, had many names. Estel, Strider, Dúnedain... Captain Thorongil of Gondor, friend of the young lord Denethor and his wife, Finduilas, and her brother, Imrahil. What would happen if they were a little too curious about their captain's past and learned of his heritage? How would it change history- and for the better? AU, do not own LOTR/cover. T to be safe.
1. Chieftain

His hands trailed down the flower's green stem, feeling the morning dew or perhaps the night's rain cool his skin. There were a thousand gardens in the parapets of the White Tower, but this was his favorite. It reminded him of home. He closed his eyes, dark bangs dripping down his forehead. Breathing in the soft air, he felt a ghostly hand on his shoulder.

_"Estel, be careful. I won't be there to save you from silly scraps, and I would like you to be in one piece come winter. I don't want to explain it to A_dar _if you're not!"_

He smiled softly at the sound of his brother's voice, but that fell to a frown when he thought over the words. He'd noticed that, soon after he left for Gondor, that he'd stopped thinking of himself as Estel. He didn't think of himself as Thorongil, either. And Aragorn wasn't even on the list.

Elrond's last son was still annoyed at his mother and fa-_adopted _family for hiding his heritage, for keeping his _own name _a secret from him! Perhaps that was why he had chosen to come here and help _his_ people. Then he couldn't hit anyone in the face. These secrets, these _lies,_ left him confused, and, in his own mind, he didn't have a name. He was just 'him'.

"Thorongil!" He snapped to his feet, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Finduilas was in the entrance, and, seeing her, he relaxed. The Steward's Wife strode forward with the poise of a queen, the tiny Boromir supported on her hip. "Captain Thorongil," she remarked again, searching his eyes. He bowed his head.

"Yes, my lady?"

"Ecthelion is irate." He winced, glancing at the sky.

"I'm late, then?"

"Late?" she laughed, "My good captain, you've missed the council entirely. And my brother was so looking forward to meeting the famous Thorongil." His heart felt a pang, like a red-hot knife burning a hole through his chest.

"Which one?" he managed to ask in what he hoped sounded like his usual lighthearted voice. Finduilas looked at him sideways.

"I said brother, captain, and I only have one." Feeling a faint blush rise in his cheeks, he pointed his gaze to the grass under his boots.

"Forgive me, my lady, I have been... distracted of late." A bit of rigidness vanished from her stance.

"Ah. Longing, or Hiraeth?" He blinked.

"My lady?"

Finduilas smiled with her eyes.

"Forgive me, captain, but I know that expression. You long for something, as some days I long for the sea. If I had to guess, I would say your home or your family. More likely both." He didn't let any emotion wash over his face. She was right, in a way. He did long for his family and home, but, more than that, he wished he was someone other than himself. "So, my good captain, I will ask again: longing, or Hiraeth?"

"I… am unfamiliar with the word 'Hiraeth', my lady."

"Hiraeth (noun). One: a deep, soul-wrenching longing. Two: homesickness. Three: unreasonable homesickness for a place you have never even visited. Four: bittersweet memory of a person, era, or thing long gone or that never happened, yet still feeling grateful for its existence." The voice came not from Finduilas, but a strongly built man, with fair hair and eyes like the ocean's water hidden beneath foam. He was dressed well, and, like the captain, wore a sword at his waist. He gave a small bow as he approached. "Imrahil of Dol Amroth."

The captain blinked, and his gaze sharpened unperceptively. Though the man was dressed in a noble's clothes, they were rumpled and didn't match. His spine was loose, but his feet were even with his shoulders and the captain doubted that, if he rammed into Imrahil with his shoulder, he'd be able to shake him, much less knock him over. He respected that, even safe in the walls of Minas Tirith, he was ready and waiting.

"You forgot one, little brother," Finduilas told him, eyes purposefully avoiding Imrahil's face.

"Did I?" he asked.

"Hiraeth (noun). One: a deep, soul-wrenching longing," she repeated his words from earlier, "Two: homesickness. Three: unreasonable homesickness for a place you have never even visited. Four: bittersweet memory of a person, era, or thing long gone or that never happened, yet still feeling grateful for its existence. _Five:" _she stressed, "depression." He waved a hand in dismissal.

"That's just a minor, archaic translation."

"Still's a definition."

"Every little thing matters to you, doesn't it?" he remarked, head cocked to the side.

"It does," Finduilas replied before her hands readjusted their grip on Boromir and her freed one shot out to straighten his shoulder pad. He shook her off. "and so, it should to you." The captain blinked.

"My lady… do you wish me to leave?"

"No, captain, stay." He aligned his feet, crossed his wrist behind his back, and waited. Something told him that he would be here for a moment before they noticed he was there again.

"I don't see your obsession with everything being perfect." Finduilas raised an eyebrow.

"Don't you, dear brother? If I remember correctly, you were the one who angrily adjusted all the flowers in the outlying garden because they clashed. It took you three full days, and you didn't sleep." Imrahil's face heated.

"I was eight!" The lady sighed, shrugging Boromir higher on her hip as he started slipping.

"It is as children that we are most open." He threw his hands in the air.

"I can never win against you." She smiled slyly.

"You cannot, little brother."

"Call me younger," he muttered, "it's less diminutive."

"Of course, my little, _tiny_, younger brother." He buried his face in his hands with a groan.

"I'm six inches taller than you!"

"And five years younger." The captain couldn't help but softly chuckle, and that turned them back to him.

"Brother, Captain Thorongil," she introduced simply. Imrahil started.

"Captain Thorongil? The Hero of the Ports of Umbar?"

The captain inclined his head humbly. "The very same, my lord." The clasped forearms in a warrior's greeting. He measured how strong Imrahil's grip was and was pleasantly surprised at it.

"I've heard much about you. Is it true that you're an enigma that appeared from the mists, with the features of a Gondorlorien but not the heritage of one?" The captain only smiled. He supposed it was mostly incorrect—he had come from nowhere, at least, as far as even Denethor or Ecthelion knew, but he _was _of Gondorlorien heritage, from Isildur, his great-great-great-great-great-great- great-great-great-great-great-great -grandfather. "Can I guess?" The captain nodded gracefully. The only guess anyone ever had was that he was a Rohirrim (as he'd made a name for himself in Rohan as well) or a Harad that didn't agree with Sauron's will. No one ever even had the slightest hint of an idea that he came from over the mountains. "You're not fair enough to be Rohirric; You're too fair to be Harad…" The captain fought to keep an impassive face. Imrahil had already taken out the only two opinions anyone had ever had! What was he going to guess? "Perhaps a man of Bree?" The captain felt a puff of air push past his lips. That was far closer to the truth than he was comfortable with.

Finduilas glanced between them with interest. "That is a remarkable idea, brother." Her gaze leveled on the man of the West, who was wishing he was somewhere (_anywhere_) else. "Well, captain?" He sighed. She'd asked.

"No, my lady, my lord, I am not a man of Bree."

"Are you a man of the… what are they called?" he asked, facing Finduilas.

"Lond Daerion?" The captain shook his head.

"What of Eryn Vorn? Or Eren Luin? Nîn-in-Eilph? Chetwood?" Imrahil snapped his fingers. "I've got it—Fornost."

"None of them, my lord," the captain replied, smiling thinly.

"Argh, I'm forgetting one of the ones I wanted to guess." _He had a list?! _"That's right—Ranger?" The captain's smile froze on his face, as did the thoughts in his head. He couldn't lie, not to the Lord of Dol Amroth and the Lady of Minas Tirith. Should he tell them? They wouldn't make the connection from that. Right? "Or do you call yourself a Dúnedain instead?" Imrahil rambled on, his brow twisting, "Númenórean?"

Finduilas, observant as always, noticed the emotions flickering in his steel eyes, and gave a true grin, even as Boromir tugged at her dress.

"You're floundering, captain." Imrahil noticed then as well and hissed a small 'yes!' under his breath. The captain sighed.

"Yes, I am a Ranger. Dúnedain is fine as well, my lord, but not Númenórean. That race…died out long ago."

"That's why you look Gondorlorien! Our people and yours share the same common ancestor—the people of Númenór!" Imrahil exclaimed. Finduilas sent the captain an amused glance.

"You'll have to forgive him, Captain Thorongil. My brother is too excitable and scholarly for his own good." Imrahil sent her a scathing gaze.

"Said the lady who remembered the dead definition of the word 'Hiraeth'." She only smiled, and then his distraction was over. The lord turned back to the captain, who was fighting to both keep an impassive face and not run away screaming from someone who already knew far more about him than he was comfortable.

"What exactly are you to the Rangers, Captain? You said you are not one of their Eryn Vorn or Fornost inhabitants, which means you're one of their wanderers. A hunter, perhaps? A scout? Or part of their watches?" The captain sighed, pointing his gaze to his mud-slick boots.

"I am… one of their leaders, my lord." Imrahil looked taken aback, but not for long.

"How far up in the chain of command?" His mind stalled.

"….H-high, my lord." Imrahil hummed.

"Don't want to tell me. That's fine—I'll guess." The captain's feet itched, but he buried his heels in the ground, clenching his jaw. _Don't flee, makes it more suspicious_… "They're run by military…" _How does he have all this in his head?! _"First or second lieutenant?" he shook his head. "No, not high enough… Captain?" 'Thorongil' signaled no. "Commander?"

"I suppose… in a way." He pursed his lips.

"…Are you their Chieftain?" Finduilas shot her brother a look.

"That's highly unlikely, tiny brother. I doubt that their chieftain— "

"I am," he whispered. The two siblings froze.

"…What?" Imrahil murmured. The captain threw his shoulders back and lifted his head.

"My name is Thorongil, Captain of Gondor and of Rohan, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, called Strider by the Hobbits of the Shire and the men of Bree." Then his feet got the better of him, and he turned and fled.

Imrahil looked at his sister with a thoughtful face and then strode away, the blue cloak of Dol Amroth spreading out behind him in a wave.


	2. Heir

Imrahil clicked open the closet in his chambers, the flickering candle held aloft in his hand. When given this room in his first visit to his sister's city, he had not seen the need for a secondary room. There was a wardrobe. He didn't need a closet beside it. But everything had a purpose and the Lord of Dol Amroth—who perhaps was a bit too scholarly for his own good—had dedicated that room to his research. Minas Tirith did have the best archives in Gondor or any of its princedom's, of course.

Imrahil thumbed through the journals, each labeled in crisp letters on the spine, pausing on the one he had searched for, neatly marked in golden ink with the name 'Thorongil'. He pulled it off the shelf, leveling it shakily in his arms. That confrontation they'd had in the garden had taken months of planning, thoughts and ideas and theories that he had finally decided to verify or cross off, were all recorded here. Closing the door, he blew out the candle, for the sunset streaming pink in his window's left it obsolete. He set it on his desk with a sigh, and opened his drawer, removing the small bottles of golden and black ink as well as a quill. He turned the spine to him and painted on a question mark in parenthesis. Something about the way the captain had faltered before he'd said the name 'Thorongil' had left Imrahil wondering if that was actually his name. It was likely—he knew that Rangers named their children in Númenórean, an off-dialect of elvish—an, as one of the pages (number three) said, he had spent an hour digging through texts of languages to find that 'Thorongil' translated to 'Eagle of the Star' in Sindarin, which was where Númenórean had branched from. Still, it was strange that it was in a dialect of elvish instead of the tongue of men that came from it. Imrahil shook his head. He was probably looking too far into this. Even so…

He blew on the ink softly, before pressing his fingers to the marks he had written. Satisfied when they came away dry, he laid it flat and flipped through the pages. Scribbled across in horrible handwriting was all his research over the past four years, crossed out theories and question marked ideas and ideas that we half or fully formed. He paused on the section labeled 'Bloodlines'. There were over a hundred bullet points, most marked through with a line for some reason or another. He scratched out the ones 'Thorongil' had said 'no' too—Bree, Lon Dear, Eryn Vorn, Eren Luin, Nîn-in-Eilph, Chetwood, Fornost—and circled the 'Ranger/Dúnedain/Númenórean', before drawing lines branching off it. First was 'Second/First Lieutenant' then 'Captain', marking both off immediately. 'Commander', that he drew a question mark next to; 'Chieftain', that he circled. He set his quill in the ink, staring at the page as though it would suddenly have all the answers.

Imrahil sighed and let his chambers, leaving the book to dry on the desk behind him.

He rounded left to the archives through the servant's halls. It was improper for him to even know how to enter them, much less know his way through them by heart, but he hated the regular corridors. They were full of people he'd much prefer to avoid. The servants barely speak to him, at least, though he wished they would. They were less pompous than most of the nobles here, and the few he knew were some of his closest friends. But it seemed that he had been grouped with the other lords and ladies and dukes and marquis in the 'Avoid at All Costs' category, so they usually scurried around him like mice. Thankfully, the servants' halls were empty, as the day was late, and their work was done.

He turned right and opened the door there. It led him to one of the dustier corners of the archives, but that was alright. Whenever he came here, he wanted to be alone. Sometimes he came here only for that reason. No one ever knew he was here; no one ever thought to look here.

Imrahil ran his hand on of the panel, made from golden and carved with 'Year of the Trees – F.A. 18' and then down the one adjacent to it, 'F.A. 19 – F.A. 590'. There would be nothing of rangers or Gondor there, but he loved to read of the elven warriors of old, the Fëanorions and their father, Fingolfin and his children, the Lady Galadriel. It was like reading tales from a storybook, and perhaps he liked that, the fact that it was history and yet seemed unreal. It told him that the impossible could happen and used to happen all the time. He sighed, heels clicking beneath him.

Imrahil strode forward, gaze glancing down each plaque. He was looking for T.A. 861 when the Rangers first came into existence. Just as he turned down the right aisle—T.A. 361- T.A. 892—and pulled off the first scroll under the correct year, he put it back. The Rangers hadn't begun in T.A. 861, that was when Arnor fell apart and the kingdoms of Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur rose in its place. The latter two were destroyed— Rhudaur joined Angmar in T.A. 1409 and Cardolan was wiped out down to the last child in T.A. 1636—leaving only Arthedain. It was taken by the Witch King and his forces. Its true end was in T.A 1974 when they took the fortress of Fornost and the remaining people were driven into the wilds. It would be useless to look at T.A. 861, as that would be the ancestors of those who became the 'Watchers'. He sighed to himself. Stupid mistake. He thought back to the line of kings of Arthedain. First, Amlaith, eldest son of Eärendur, who should have been king, had Arnor not fallen apart. Then. Beleg, Mallor, Celepharn, Celebrindor, Malvegil, Argeleb I, Arveleg I, Araphor, Argeleb II, Arvegil, Arveleg II, Araval, Araphant, and, finally, Arvedui, last king of Arthedain. But who ruled his people after his death? Imrahil fought to remember the name of Arvedui's son, and, still, nothing came to him.

But he knew his birth-year (because his brain worked like that), T.A. 1938. Arvedui died when his son was 37, making the year that the first chieftain of the Dúnedain came into power… T.A. 1975. That was also the year they adopted the title 'Rangers/Watchers of the North'.

Imrahil's feet fled beneath him, dragging him to the correct shelf. His graze scanned down the correct year, and, seeing a scroll marked with green on the knob (to show that it spanned past the year it had been placed under, but it was still there because that was when its record began) he opened it quickly.

"_The Dúnedain were founded from the remnants of the people of Arthedain,_" he murmured to himself, "_after their fifteenth king, Arvedui, died at sea, taking the two Palantir he had rescued from the fallen fortress of Fornost down with him. Aranath, his eldest son, rejected the title of king, for their people were scattered and divided and the kingdom was no more, and founded the Rangers of the North, also called the Watchers. The last place of Arthedain exists in the Shire, were the halflings or Periannath people live, untouched by the world."_ Imrahil skimmed down the text until a set of words shot through his mind like lightning. "_Until the ending of the world, the Rangers declared that they would serve no Chieftain who was not himself a descendant of Isildur." _His hands trembled so violently that he had to put the scroll down as to not drop it. _I am Thorongil, Chieftain of the Dúnedain…_ "That can't be right…" he said to himself and tugged another manuscript down. "_At Aranath's crowning, the people promised him, unheeded, that they would only follow descendants of Isildur and, if his line died, then so would their culture."_ He rolled it up and placed it back on the shelf. "_Isildur's blood would run through the chieftain's veins, or he would not be called chieftain by his people_," he read from another. Imrahil looked up with dead eyes. "The line of Isildur is dead," he intoned, but, for the first time in his life, doubted the words.

"It can't be true…" he whispered in denial, "why would they stay away from Gondor, from the kingship? Why would Thorongil come here and not immediately take the throne? Why would he lie, hide, choose to remain an enigma, serve the steward?"

Imrahil tore through the remaining scrolls, only feeling a tinge of guilt when he ripped one of them slightly. He, at last, found a family tree of the chieftains, and his fingers traced down the male line. "Aranath… Arahael… Aranuir…Aravir… Aragorn… Araglas…" And that was the last name. "Yes," he said to himself, "it can't be true… the line is dead." But then he saw the small note write at the bottom and leaned in closer to see it. "From here, the Dúnedain vanish from Gondor's records. It is unclear if the line died, or if they were simply too hidden for Gondor to find." It fell from his hands, landing on the floor of the empty archives with a dull clang. _I am Thorongil, Chieftain of the Dúnedain… _A light came into his eyes, and he gave an insane little laugh.

"The line of kings lives! Gondor has an heir; Gondor has a king!" He gathered the scrolls in his hands. _Now… to get that heir to admit it._

* * *

"I always thought that your favorite flowers were pink, _meleth_," Denethor said with a touch of humor.

"No," Finduilas answer, taking a small butter knife out of Boromir's tiny fingers, "they're blue. Thorongil, back me up."

He laughed, holding up his hands. "My lady, why would I know what flowers you like? The only person I have that for is the one I love."

"Speaking of which…" Denethor flowered his hands beneath his chin, "What's she like? I swear, getting you to talk about her is like succeeding in convincing an orc to serve the steward." Before the captain had the chance to even open his mouth, the door banged open, and Imrahil was there.

"Brother," the Steward's wife called, "How lovely to see you. Come sit down." He didn't move. His face was still as stone; his eyes hard on Thorongil's face. "Brother?"

"Captain," the lord began. They noticed all at once that his arms were laden with scrolls. "You told me today that you were the Chieftain of the Dúnedain." Denethor glanced at his wife, and she mouthed, _forced him to_. "And that stuck with me. Something rang wrong with it, though I couldn't figure out why." He set the texts down, and picked one up, rolling it, and read aloud, "_Isildur's blood would run through the chieftain's veins, or he would not be called chieftain by his people." _Denethor and his wife glanced at the captain, who swallowed hard and fidgeted nervously. Imrahil's eyes lingered on his face, but then he chosen another scroll. "_Until the ending of the world, the Rangers declared that they would serve no Chieftain who was not himself a descendant of Isildur." _He didn't give them time to think that over, for he read the last one to them, nailing the point home. "_At Aranath's crowning, the people promised him, unheeded, that they would only follow descendants of Isildur and, if his line died, then so would their culture." _Imrahil rolled it up and set it down with the others, smiling. "And yet, you told me you were the Chieftain of the Dúnedain. I think you have some explaining to do." His fingers found the pommel of his sword and rested on it. "Thorongil isn't your name, is it?" The captain swallowed, clearing his throat, and tried to ignore the three sets of eyes pointed on him as he stood slowly. His head was bowed as he spoke.

"My name is Aragorn II, son of Arathorn II, son of Arador, Adopted Son of Lord Elrond of Imladris, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, Captain of Gondor and Rohan, Lord of Imladris, called 'Estel' by the elves of the Hidden Valley, called 'Strider' by the Hobbits or Halflings or Periannath of the Shire. And I am the Heir of Isildur." Denethor stood.

"You are the rightful king," he breathed, bowing low. Finduilas and Imrahil did the same. Thor—Aragorn grimaced.

"Please, do not bow to me."

The Lord of Dol Amroth glanced up.

"What is that noise?" he asked.

There was a commotion in the halls, shouting and arguing and running, before the door burst open again. Imrahil's sword was already drawn, and Aragorn's followed it. But the latter, immediately lowered his as he saw the face of the intruder. He ran forward and the man collapsed, breathless, in his arms.

"…Halbarad?" he asked disbelievingly, brushing dark hair from the man's forehead. He glanced back at the lords and intruded the man. "My cousin, Captain Halbarad of the Dúnedain, son of Arassuil." Then he turned back to the man, and it was as though they had faded from existence. He had eyes only for his captain. "Cousin," he asked again, "What are you doing here?" Halbarad seemed to finally find his breath and stood, waving away Aragorn's steadying hands, despite the fact that he was leaning heavily on the wall.

"My Chieftain… I have ridden here for three days without rest to bring you this news. I trusted no one else." Aragorn's breath caught.

"What is it, captain? Speak." Halbarad bit his lip, resting his hand on his cousin's shoulder.

"I am sorry, Aragorn. Arahael has been taken captive by orcs." 'Thorongil's knees collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled to the floor.

"No…" he murmured, clutching his cousin's hand desperately, "Does he live?" Halbarad shook his head.

"We don't know."

"Do they know his heritage?"

"We don't know." Aragorn breathed a sigh of relief and seemed to find the strength to stand.

"Good. If they know it, he'll be dead by now. If they don't…" he cast a glance around the room, "there's a chance he's still alive." Then the captain was out of the room before anyone could say another word.

"Um…" Imrahil began articulately, "What was that?" Halbarad sighed, looked at the lords and lady.

"I assume you know?" Denethor nodded. "Arahael II is Aragorn's younger brother. They are both Heirs of Isildur, though the actual title belongs to Aragorn himself. They're… close. Very much so. If Arahael dies… it will destroy our chief in every way." Aragorn returned then, and he had a small, pre-packed bag slung over his shoulder.

"I have to leave Gondor," he announced, "and I do not know if I will return." Denethor nodded. He needed not ask questions.

"Go with the Valar," he murmured, and then the Chieftain and Captain of the Dúnedain were gone. They would not return, not for a long, long time. "May Eru grant you speed," he said to the air.

They were not there to hear him.

Author's Note:

Yes, I have a singular OC in this. Get over it. 


End file.
